


of wildflowers and wishes

by Anonymous



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bittersweet, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Repressed Memories, Single Parent Zuko, Slow Burn, Small Towns, Writer Sokka
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:15:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27580577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When popular children’s book author Sokka hits dreaded writer’s block, he doesn’t expect to find solace in the form of his first love inside a seaside bookshop.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 186
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by the incomparable [wheat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnt_oranges).  
> tags will be updated as needed.
> 
> 11/29: this will be updated every other week.

He can’t remember what wakes him up first—the sparrows chirping up a storm outside his window, or the piercing blade of sunlight that cuts past the narrow slit in the curtain and shines right on his face. Or maybe it’s that nightmare again, the one with fire-hot pain and anguished screaming that lodges itself inside his mind and refuses to let go until he’s fully awake and panting, blankets half-off his bed, his mind racing a million thoughts a second as he lays there, sweat beading on his forehead until he summons enough energy to wipe it away with a trembling hand.

_Why now?_

Whatever the reason, he’s awake now, and with the sun comes the promise of a new day, of work to be done, of nightmares unfinished.

The floor creaks as he makes his way into the bathroom, tying up his hair into a messy ponytail before he splashes his face with cold water, wincing as ice-cold pinpricks nick their way into his skin while he brushes his teeth. He drops the toothbrush into the sink and clicks open a bottle, the smell of cedar punctuating the air as he shaves whatever stubble he has with quick, sharp bladestrokes, tapping the razor against the side of the sink before he washes his face one last time.

The mirror above the sink is small and worn, a prominent crack running down the center that splits his face in half as he surveys himself in the warm light of the morning. It’s the same face he’s always had—high cheekbones, thin lips, an impassive expression that scares away even the friendliest of faces.

 _Like alabaster_ , his sister had once said a long, long time ago when he was still living at home. _You’re so stone cold, no one knows what you’re thinking_.

(And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe he doesn’t want people to know what he’s thinking, because it’s better to hide your thoughts than to share them at all.)

The door hinge squeaks as he stumbles out of his room, shirt half-buttoned, pants still rumpled from their trip in the dryer the night before. He makes his way into another bedroom, with soft green walls and sheer curtains over the bright windows. The bed isn’t nearly big enough, nearly wide enough, for the menagerie of stuffed animals hiding in every nook and cranny, save for a comforter-covered lump hidden in the center of it all. When he pulls back the curtains and the light dances into the room, the lump moves slightly, blossoming into a small, sleeping girl clutching a stuffed lizard in her left arm and a dog in her right.

“Mi-chan,” he whispers as he reaches out his hand to brush a loose lock of hair behind the girl’s ear. “Mi-chan, it’s time to wake up.”

The girl wriggles deeper into her bed.

“Mi-chan, did you hear me?”

“ _Mhm_.”

“Mi-chan, it’s almost time for school.”

The girl shakes her head stubbornly. “—school, bapi.”

“What did you say?”

“Summer, bapi.” The girl’s eyes are still closed as she pulls the lizard tighter to her chest. “Summer. No school.”

“But still, it’s time to get up.” He taps her lightly on the nose, a small smile cracking against his face when he sees how her nose scrunches up. “You have to get up, Mi-chan.”

“Nuh uh, bapi.”

“Mi-chan.” He shakes his head in amusement and pulls the well-worn dog out of her grasp, flopping it against the bed. “Mi-chan, if you don’t get up, then bapi’ll be sad.”

“But bapi is always sad.”

 _Oh_.

There’s a sudden pang in his lungs, and he’s not sure where it came from. “Mi-chan. Please.”

“Fine.” The girl sits up with all the grace of a sleepy seven-year-old and rubs her eyes.

“That’s my girl.” He places the dog next to the rest of the stuffed animals on the bed, squeezing it in between the flat panda and the giant penguin. “C’mon. Bapi will make your favorite toast for you.”

The girl stares wearily up at him. “Will there be eggs?”

“Of course. Mi-chan can have as many eggs as she wants.”

He watches as the little girl climbs out of bed, wandering towards the hallway and down to the bathroom. The bed is still in disarray when he arranges it properly, pulling the sakura-pink comforter tightly against the edges, making sure that the dog and the lizard are tucked in neatly atop the pillow before he leaves the room and ambles downstairs to the kitchen.

The pan is crackling merrily, the sound and smell of fried eggs and butter crackling in the air when the girl staggers into the kitchen and climbs into her chair. He turns around and slides a plate in front of her, cheeks warming when he sees how she giggles at the heart-shaped egg in the middle of her golden toast, a smattering of salt and pepper jiggling on the yolk.

“Thank you, bapi!”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

He takes a bite of his own toast after she eats hers. She’s wearing a jumper today, navy-blue velvet over a white collared shirt he vaguely remembers ironing a few days ago. Her hair is sticking up in all directions, and he wonders how she always manages to work her hair into a baby crow’s nest every time she sleeps

“When you’re done, bapi will comb your hair for you.”

“Okay!” The girl smiles at him, a smattering of crumbs freckling the sides of her mouth. He reaches out and wipes them away with a napkin with a snort.

“Mi-chan, if you don’t eat slowly, you’ll get sick.”

The girl wrinkles her nose and sticks her tongue out at him.

“I know, sweetheart. Bapi’s just worried.”

“Bapi’s too worried.”

Sometimes, he wonders how his little girl has grown to be so damn perceptive.

When the two of them finish their toast, he sits back on a chair and pats his legs, grinning when she launches himself into his lap and gives him a giant, bone-bruising hug—or as tight of a hug as a seven-year-old can manage, the kind where their little hands wrap tightly around your waist, their head burrowed in your chest so tight, you can hear your heartbeat echoing. He laughs quietly as he untangles himself from the hug and shifts in his seat until she’s perched on his lap, the top of her head bumping awkwardly against his chin before he leans back and sits up. A hairbrush materializes in his hand, and he tugs it through her hair, gently, pulling apart the tangles until the crow’s nest is sleek and tamed into twin pigtails.

“Bapi has to go to work today,” he murmurs as she slides off his lap and stands up, hazel eyes staring inquisitively at him. “Are you going to be okay at Grandpa Piandao’s place?”

“I love Grandpa Piano!”

“That’s Grandpa Piandao, sweetheart.” He reaches out to straighten her shirt, tucking in the collar neatly in place. “Bapi’ll take you there after I do the dishes, okay?”

The look his little girl gives him is all sunshine and smiles, and it’s enough to soothe his aching heart just so.

And when the plates are washed and dried, when the bread is put away and the table cleaned, Zuko takes Izumi’s hand in his, and the two of them walk out the front door into the warm embrace of the summer’s morning.

△▽△▽△

 _Tick, tock_.

“—meeting with the publisher next week—”

 _Tick, tock_.

“—wondering what your plans are—”

 _Tick, tock_.

“—deadline coming up— _Sokka_. Are you even listening?”

 _Tick, tock_.

Sokka’s head is filled with clouds, and he practically leaps out of his chair in surprise, notebook flying one way and ballpoint in the other, startling Foo Foo awake from under the desk. The golden retriever puppy snorts as he crawls out from under the desk and shimmies towards the other side of the desk where Suki’s sitting, her eyes narrowing over the frames of her glasses, a folder sprawled open in her lap as she taps a pen against an empty page.

“Huh?”

“Sokka.” Suki sighs and tucks the pen behind her ear. “Can you pay attention?”

“I _am_ paying attention!”

Foo Foo barks.

“See? Even Foo Foo agrees with me!”

Suki leans down to scratch the dog’s head. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

“But I am!”

“Then can you tell me anything, literally _anything_ , that I’ve said in the last few minutes?”

Sokka frowns, his eyebrows furrowing in mock concentration as he tries desperately to remember anything that Suki has just mentioned. “You were saying something about a publication—”

“Sokka.” The glasses come off, and Suki steadies herself. “Sokka. What’s going on?”

“Literally? We’re talking.” Sokka shrugs. “Or do you mean personally? Because I think you know enough about me knowing enough about you to—”

“Don’t try to change the subject, Sokka.” Suki doesn’t look impressed in the slightest. “You didn’t send in any drafts by the deadline, you haven’t been responding to any of my texts, you aren’t even paying attention to this entire meeting _that I set up just for you_. What’s going on?”

Sokka stares intently at the ground. (That one coffee-stained spot on the otherwise clean floor looks _very_ interesting right about now. Maybe he should’ve done a better job with his cleaning earlier before Suki arrived.)

—and _ooh_ , maybe he should’ve gotten out the good tea leaves for Suki when he had first realized that she was coming over—

 _Sokka. Focus_.

Because truthfully, Sokka’s trying to do anything to avoid addressing the elephant stampeding around his room, knocking over his things and causing a ruckus. He’s managed to hold it off with whatever bit of procrastination he has left from his college days and a strong sense of _nothing’s wrong_ , but now that it’s staring him straight in the face—well, it’s difficult to admit just how much his writer’s block has affected him, tossing Sokka’s creativity carelessly out of the window and laughing as he scrambled to pick up the remaining pieces.

Sokka’s finally come to the realization too late, that _this_ is what it feels like to have writer’s block. The dreaded dragon that all authors experience but never talk about, the kind where the fountain of creativity has dried up, the one where it’s physically impossible for him to pick up a pen or tap away on a keyboard to write. He’s been agonizing over his empty notebooks for the past few weeks now, barely getting in a sentence a day before he calls it quits and throws himself on the couch, wasting away on _Star Trek_ reruns and microwave popcorn with Foo Foo by his side. It’s like his inspiration is a flighty mistress who finally ran away one dark and stormy night and never came back, leaving Sokka to pick up the empty pieces of his brain and wondering how he’s going to go about writing the next installment of _The Adventures of the Blue Spirit_.

“—stuck.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m stuck, okay?” Sokka throws his hands up in the air. “Stuck. Trapped. Caught. However you wanna call it. I’m figuratively out of fresh ideas now.”

Suki looks surprised, especially as Sokka barrels on. ““And before you ask if I’ve tried anything, yeah. I’ve tried everything. I set up a routine. I told myself I had to write at least a page a day. I tried starting from the middle and working backwards. I rewrote the character profiles. _Nothing’s working_. I don’t even know what to do anymore.”

“Don’t tell me that you’re already sick of _Blue Spirit_?” Suki looks appalled. “Sokka, I thought I told you about this before you went off and—”

“And started _Blue Spirit_ and yeeted myself into this mess by signing a ten-book deal, and now I’m just ‘that guy who writes about that vigilante thing’, yada yada yada.” Sokka waves his hand. He’s heard this spiel a thousand—no, probably a million, but who’s counting?—times already, the one where he accidentally came up with a harebrained idea for a novel on a smattering of fast-food receipts and shopping lists, the one about a children’s series starring a valiant vigilante fighting crime in the big city. Who knew that kids these days would be into this kind of stuff? (Sokka’s honestly surprised that anyone bothers reading a _book_ these days, honestly. Aren’t they always on that weird video app? Tocktick? TickTok?)

Suki glares at him. And then Foo Foo’s also glaring at him, which makes Sokka feel doubly ashamed.

“What, did I get it wrong?”

“You know that’s not what I meant. What I _was_ going to say is that you should’ve put more thought into deciding to write a children’s _series_ , Sokka. Emphasis on the _series_ part.”

“Well, I made it to book four, didn’t I?”

“Four. Out of _ten_. Congratulations.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Ten books, Sokka. _Ten_.” Suki holds up her fingers. “Six to go, my friend.”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

“Look. I’m not here to argue with you.” Suki looks like she’s ready to throw her half-finished coffee in exasperation. “You have to tell me what’s bothering you so I can help.”

“... so you wanna help me write book five?”

“Sokka, I’m not a writer.”

“Says the creative writing major.”

“Creative writing _minor_ , Sokka.”

“Well, you like writing, right?”

“And you don’t?” Suki pinches the bridge of her nose. “ _You’re_ the one writing here.”

“You think I haven’t noticed?”

“No need to get sassy on me, hotshot.”

“You know you love me.” Sokka winks at her, narrowly dodging the pen Suki sends spinning towards his head. Foo Foo leaps up and charges towards the pen, wriggling enthusiastically when he catches it in his mouth and brings it back to Suki with a dopey smile on his face.

“I’m trying to help you here.” Suki purses her lips as she retrieves her retriever-slobbered pen and places it on the desk. “So tell me what’s going on.”

“Oh, besides the massive case of writer’s block?” Sokka says airily. “Not much, aside from the fact that I literally can’t find motivation to write anything. I don’t even know if I want to write children’s stuff anymore.”

“Oh, Sokka.” Suki’s voice is soft. “You should’ve told me about this earlier.”

“And what? Tell you to cancel the deal? I don’t think contracts work like that.”

“They don’t, but I could’ve negotiated with Kyoshi before you went off and got yourself tangled in writer’s block.”

“Not like I asked for it, okay?”

“No one asks for this. Maybe you’re just burnt out.” Suki pats his arm comfortingly. “Didn’t you finish the first two books within a year?”

“Yeah.” Sokka takes a swig of his coffee. “Biggest mistake ever. I’m addicted to caffeine now. 11/10 would not recommend.”

There’s a moment of silence as Suki stares intently at the ceiling before looking back at Sokka. “Have you ever considered writing a standalone?”

A standalone? _A standalone?_ “What, and lose whatever clout I have as a writer now?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Suki clasps her hands together. “Maybe you could try to write about something else that you’re interested in. Think of it as a change of pace or something.”

“Like what?”

“Now _that’s_ something I can’t tell you.” Suki glances down at her phone and frowns. “Aw, damn.”

“What’s up?”

“I have another meeting.” Suki closes her folder with a snap, tucking her glasses into her suit pocket. “A meeting with my lovely boss about _you_ , and why you haven’t written anything in the past three months.”

Sokka winces and shrugs apologetically. He’s met Kyoshi once or twice and he _swears_ that he’s never met someone more intimidating in his life—and for a moment, Sokka sends a prayer of thanks up to the spirits that he doesn’t have to deal with Kyoshi by himself.

Suki stands up, Foo Foo whining and tracing figure-eights in between her legs. “I have to go. In the meantime, you should think a little about what you want to do next. And let me worry about Kyoshi. Goodness knows what fit she’s going to pitch once she realizes that her bestselling author is having second thoughts about his writing.”

“Very comforting.”

“I do what I can.” Suki blows him a kiss as she makes her way to the door. “And remember what I said about the change of pace. I think it’ll help.”

“And _you_.” She points a finger sternly in Foo Foo’s direction. “You need to do a better job supporting Sokka.”

The puppy thumps his tail against the floor in affirmation.

“Yeah, yeah.” Sokka slumps into his chair as the apartment door closes after Suki with a snap.

Great.

Now what?

△▽△▽△

Sokka’s phone vibrates in his pocket while he’s on the way to the park, Foo Foo plodding along and sniffing every single bush on the side of the street.

His screen flashes “ _Unknown Caller_ ”—and for a second, Sokka wonders if he should decline the call. Telemarketers are getting better and better these days. He shakes his head as he slides the phone back into his pocket.

The phone doesn’t stop vibrating.

 _I swear to La_ —Sokka fumbles with his phone and slides it open. “Hello?”

A familiar voice slinks over the speaker. “You finally picked up.”

Sokka squints. _Wait a second—is that—wait—but it couldn’t be—_ “Who is this?”

“Someone wants to meet you. Tomorrow. Jasmine Dragon. 3 PM. Be there or be scared.”

 _Hold on_.

“June?” Sokka begins, but the line clicks as the caller hangs up.

_Now what the fuck does June want with me?_

Sometimes, Sokka still wonders how he and June ever became friends in the first place. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that June and Suki were in the same dance group, and Sokka happened to meet June by proxy. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that Sokka happened to take one investigative journalism class in college and got saddled with the class lone wolf, the one with sharp wit and the tongue to boot. And of _course_ it makes sense that June’s calling from an unknown number—Sokka’s not even surprised at this point. As far as he knows, June doesn’t have one permanent phone number—probably has something to do with the fact that she isn’t exactly keen on having a phone in the first place—or maybe it has something to do with all those top-secret private-eye things that come with her particular line of work. It’s honestly a miracle that they’re still in touch after college, and Sokka’s eternally grateful that she’s even let him shadow her work on a few occasions so that he gets more inspiration for the character of the Blue Spirit, especially when it comes to surveillance and espionage.

 _But not the vigilantism part_ , as June likes to say, and Sokka can practically picture her arching one kohl-rimmed eye in amusement. _I bend the law, I don’t break it_.

( _Sounds like something a vigilante would say_ , Sokka whispers in his mind, because he’s not about to say it out loud in public and risk being physically slammed six ways from Sunday. June is... terrifyingly strong.)

Whatever the reason, Sokka’s still perplexed when he gets the call from June. He’s made it to the park now, phone in one hand and Frisbee in the other as he watches Foo Foo frolic around in the blanket of summer green grass. Coming to the park with Foo Foo is just one of the many things on Sokka’s “ _Get Over Your Writer’s Block_ ” list—right under “ _try every recipe from Gran Gran’s cookbook_ ” and “ _taking long showers and waiting for inspiration to just hit you before you rinse out your shampoo_ ”.

(He’s more than halfway through the cookbook, and as for the shower one? Nothing so far.)

Wait. _Where did Foo Foo go?_

Sokka peers over the horizon and notices a golden blur bounding towards him, and he narrowly misses a faceful of fur as the puppy jumps into his lap and refuses to leave.

“ _Ow!_ ” Sokka winces as he feels puppy-paws digging into his thighs. “You’re heavy, you know?”

Foo Foo cocks his head slightly.

“But you’re cute, so I gotta give that to— _hey! No licking!_ ” But it’s too late, and Sokka struggles against Foo Foo’s enthusiastic puppy kisses all over his face. Leave it to Katara to choose the most rambunctious puppy out of the entire litter—and leave it to him to name said puppy Foo Foo Cuddlypoops while he was half-asleep when Katara had called to ask him about a name for his birthday present.

(At least Foo Foo’s a friendly—maybe a little _too_ friendly—companion to have. Plus, he definitely gives Sokka an excuse to leave his house when the writer’s block gets particularly bad. Which is most days—which also means that Sokka ends up giving Foo Foo a _little_ too much to eat, resulting in one heck of a pudgy puppy.)

“All right, all right.” Sokka lifts Foo Foo up and away from his face. “Promise me you’ll behave.”

The look the puppy gives him is equal parts disapproval and defiance.

“I can’t believe I’m negotiating with my _own dog_ ,” Sokka grumbles as he places Foo Foo on the ground and clips the leash to the collar, hauling himself off the bench and stretching his back before checking his phone one last time. He still can’t get that mysterious phone call out of his head, and for a brief moment, Sokka wonders if this is all just June’s idea of a practical joke. But June’s not that kind of person, and Sokka’s pretty sure she wouldn’t do this to him, not when he’s already stressed and freaking out about life in general. The thought lingers with him as he makes his way home, waving a stick of jerky in Foo Foo’s face until the puppy latches on with sharp teeth and tugs it away from Sokka’s grasp.

Now Sokka’s sitting in front of his laptop, staring blankly at the empty document on screen and battling the gigantic cloud of emptiness swirling in his brain.

Nothing.

Sokka closes his eyes and wills his internal chaos down to a simmer. The more he tries to write about the Blue Spirit, the more the Blue Spirit runs away from him—and how ironic is that? The created running away from the creator? Sokka would laugh—except that it’s actually happening to him, and he has no idea what to do.

And to be fair, Sokka had always intended on _Adventures of the Blue Spirit_ being a single novel, except for the fact that the book had inexplicably shot upwards on the YA bestseller’s list overnight and thrown all of Sokka’s plans for a loop. Now here he is, four novels deep into a series that’s looking less and less enticing by the day and more and more annoying to write. There’s only so many times the Blue Spirit can swoop in and save the day, so many chapters he can write about the antagonist’s nefarious plot before it all begins to feed into a stream of repetition that Sokka’s on the verge of drowning in. Sokka’s just restless now, constantly feeling like there’s something else— _anything_ else—that he’d rather be doing other than writing about the Blue Spirit dodging the cops for the umpteenth time.

Plus, he’d hate to have his entire writing career defined by Blue Spirit—not that there’s anything wrong with the Blue Spirit, of course, but mostly because Sokka doesn’t want to be shoehorned into writing YA novels for the rest of his life. He’d much rather be writing about food or culture—two things Sokka’s always been interested in—rather than spending time writing about a fictitious vigilante who only exists within the confines of Microsoft Word. But the deal’s been signed, the lines drawn, and Sokka feels like he’s on a one-way road with no end in sight.

And what was Suki saying earlier? Something about a change of pace?

“Change of pace? More like a change of face.” Sokka snickers at his own pun. He prays to the spirits that June’s not leading him on a wild goose chase for the sake of a few laughs. Then again—when it comes to June, who really knows?

And who, out of their right mind, would want to meet him?

△▽△▽△

When Sokka shows up to The Jasmine Dragon the next day and doesn’t see June there, he’s not surprised. She mentioned “someone”, after all, and knowing June—June’s probably off doing something for her work. _I make connections_ , Sokka can hear June saying in his head. _I don’t keep them_.

Sokka’s used to it by now, but he can’t help but feel a twinge of irritation when he pushes through the door, the wind chimes in the doorway signalling his arrival. He meanders to the counter and orders himself a pot of gaoshan tea and a plate of egg tarts. (Before you ask—yes, he’s trying to get over his caffeine addiction, and as they say, little steps are better than none.)

(Now only if this would work as well with his writing.)

The egg tarts arrive, all flaky and buttery as Sokka bites into one and nearly burns his tongue. He takes a sip of his tea, trying to soothe his tingling mouth before realizing that the tea is searing a new burn into the roof of his mouth. He glances up at the clock—it’s 3:30 now—and bitterly regrets the fact that he even bothered to dress up for his meeting, going so far as to do a clean shave and pull out his only suit, because there’s nothing quite like making that first impression with a stranger—especially if you’re late.

The café seems to be mostly empty, save for a few college-looking students sitting at the counter with textbooks strewn about and the requisite businessman sitting at a table by himself. Sokka thinks that the businessman looks familiar, with dark hair slicked back into a high ponytail and clear, amber eyes that remind him of someone—but he’s not sure from where. The businessman’s fiddling with his phone, looking up every so often and scanning the store until his eyes meet Sokka’s.

And it’s like time stands still, with only the two of them staring straight at each other. There’s something prickling at the back of Sokka’s mind, something so close yet so far, anxious to get out.

_Is this the someone that June wants me to meet?_

The man waves him over, shattering the moment and breaking Sokka’s train of thought. Confused, Sokka picks up his plate of egg tarts and his cup of tea, sliding into the seat across from the man.

“You look familiar,” the man begins, voice soft and steady, and Sokka’s eyes widen because _damn does this guy sounds so familiar, but I have no fucking clue who he is_. “Are you Sokka?”

“Who’s asking?”

“A friend.” The man clears his throat. “I mean, me.”

“A friend? _A friend_. I don’t even know you.” Sokka crosses his arms. He’s not sure what sort of trick June’s playing on him now. The guy doesn’t look—or sound—terribly suspicious, but Sokka’s spidey-senses are still tingling. “Why should I help you?”

“Because I think you’ll be very interested.” The man reaches into his wallet and pulls out a small rectangle and hands it to Sokka. It’s cream-colored, with dark blue ink declaring “ _Lu Ten Huo, Agni & Company_” in a sharp, serif font.

 _Lu Ten?_ _Now where have I heard that name before_?

( _If you don’t remember it, then it must’ve not been that important_.)

( _Well, I don’t even remember half of the things I write, brain cell_.)

( _Touché_.)

“Mister Huo, eh?” Sokka waves the card in the air. “So what can I do for you?”

“I heard from a friend that you’re struggling with something—”

Sokka raises his hand. “Woah there, did June put you up to this? Because I swear to La, I’m going to have a nice conversation with her about friend-friend confidentiality agreements—”

“—and I have a proposition for you.” Lu Ten folds his arms and crosses one leg over the other, eyes brightening by the second. He reminds Sokka of someone from a long time ago, someone with that same fire in their eyes, someone that—

( _Pay attention_.)

( _Okay, okay. I get it_.)

“Okay, fine. Humor me.”

Lu Ten’s shoulders relax. “I want you to bring him back home.”

Huh?

Hold on a second. What’s going on?

“Woah, hold your horses, dude.” Sokka frantically waves his hands in the air. “I don’t know if you know this or whatever June told you, but, like, I don’t do that kind of work? Like, maybe you thought I did stuff like what June does, but I swear to the spirits, I don’t do—”

“No, it’s nothing like that.” Lu Ten reaches into his jacket and pulls out an envelope. “I know that you aren’t a private investigator, rest assured. June already told me about you.”

“Then why—?” Sokka hesitates when Lu Ten slides the envelope towards him.

“Open it.”

 _Okay?_ Sokka opens the envelope and a photograph falls out, narrowly gliding to the floor before he manages to catch it in his hand. The photograph is worn, the colors slightly faded, but he can still make out the unmistakable—

Oh.

 _Oh_.

 _There has got to be a mistake_.

( _Oh, Tui. What the fuck have you gotten yourself into now, Sokka Qanik?_ )

( _Are you serious? Why’re you asking me? You should ask yourself._ )

( _But I_ am _asking myself!_ )

( _How the fuck am I supposed to know why the fuck your_ high school crush _is in that photo?_ )

Short, black hair. Brooding, hazel eyes. A wobbly smile.

Sokka would recognize that face anywhere.

He looks up at Lu Ten, then down at the photograph, then back up at Lu Ten. The businessman smiles back, a tired expression on his face.

Sokka opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again.

“How do you have a picture of Zuko.”

It’s less of a question and more of a statement, really. Sokka’s mind is racing again, thoughts faster than the speed of light as he struggles to figure out how, why, but— _wait, you haven’t even seen Zuko in, like, almost ten years?_ —all these emotions and thoughts welling up to the surface, a massive star threatening to explode.

— _soft smiles, a touch on the cheek, Shakespeare soliloquies, a gentle hug_ —

— _screaming, crying, pain, pain, pain_ —

Stop that.

( _Sokka, stop that_.)

“—Sokka? Sokka?” Lu Ten’s waving his hand in his face, face furrowed in worry. “Are you all right?”

“‘m fine.” Sokka tries to keep his voice as steady as he can, but his hands tremble as he takes another sip of his tea. It’s bitter, clearly oversteeped, but the sharpness is almost enough to jerk Sokka out of his shock. “I’m fine,” he repeats.

( _But I’m not_.)

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” Lu Ten sinks back into his seat.

 _I kinda did_. Sokka swallows those words back into his throat.

“So, do you think you can help me?”

“Look, man.” Sokka wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead, wondering if someone turned off the A/C in the café or something. “I don’t think I’m going to be the best—”

“I _know_ you’re the best person to bring him home.” Lu Ten clasps his hands together. “Sokka, please.”

“Um, hate to break it to you, but dude.” Sokka waves his hand around his face. “Not a private eye. How am I supposed to bring him—”

“I already talked to your editor about how you’re on _hiatus_ ,” Lu Ten replies, and _hiatus_ thuds into Sokka’s empty mind and ricochets from wall to wall, an ominous reminder of empty Word documents and scribbled notebooks.

Wait. Sokka’s still trying to pull all the connections together in his mind. _How the fuck does he know Suki—I bet June had something to do with this—wait, I swear—Suki, what the fuck have you put me up to—Suki, I know you’re trying to help but—_

Sokka shakes his head, dispelling his thoughts. He’ll have a talk with Suki about this later.

Lu Ten continues. “I know that you have time to help me. And if you don’t want to do it for me, then do it for him.”

“Wait a second—”

“We don’t have much time.” Sokka watches as Lu Ten pulls out a pen and paper, scribbling down a line of words in a slanted font before folding up the paper into a neat square and sliding it towards Sokka. “Please. Before it’s too late.”

“But why can’t you do it yourself?”

Sokka watches as a shadow flits over Lu Ten’s face, eyes darkening for a split second.

“It’s—” Lu Ten hesitates, tapping his fingers on the table. “It’s—it’s complicated.”

The shadow darkens over Lu Ten's face, and Sokka decides not to press on.

“Look. You’ll be compensated generously.” Lu Ten reaches out over the table and clasps Sokka’s hand in his. Sokka flinches at how cool and dry his hand feels. “I just really need to know that he’s doing okay. Please.”

And as they’re sitting there, Lu Ten holding Sokka’s hand like his life depends on it, Sokka takes a deep breath. He doesn’t really have anything else going on besides trying to conquer his great wall of writer’s block—and now that he’s thinking about it, Lu Ten really does remind him a lot of the past, of shining eyes and smooth voices and soft touches—it’s tugging on a heartstring that Sokka’s been hiding within himself for so long, he thought it had disappeared.

( _I mean, you should just do it, right?_ )

( _I’m not sure._ )

( _I don’t think going to find him will hurt_.)

( _That’s true_.)

( _Maybe it’ll help you get over your rut_.)

( _Point taken_.)

“Okay.” Sokka takes a deep breath, staring right into Lu Ten’s eyes. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

And before he knows it, Sokka’s shaking hands with Lu Ten in the dim afternoon glow of The Jasmine Dragon and wondering why his chest is aching so much.


	2. Chapter 2

Sokka could still remember the first time he saw _him_ sitting in the library during lunch—that quiet, brooding boy huddled in the corner of the giant room by himself, an open textbook fluttering on the table before him and a thin frown painted over his pale face. 

_Who was that?_

Sokka had been in the same school system for his entire life, from elementary to junior high to high school, and he was pretty sure he recognized most people in his school. But he’d never seen this boy before, so mysterious and quiet, always sitting on the edge of the classroom near the windows. The boy had mysteriously appeared one day out of thin air, someone who stepped into the humdrum of high school with barely a sound, like he had always been there—just invisible and silent. 

(Or maybe Sokka hadn’t been paying attention when the teacher was introducing him—which was normal, considering how band and lunch were basically the only two things that were ever on his mind.)

It took another week for Sokka to realize that the boy never looked like he actually ate lunch, that he just sat in the library, day after day, a different textbook opened in front of him. Calculus on Monday, biology on Tuesday, physics on Wednesday—not that Sokka was really paying attention, of course. He just happened to remember the textbook colors, okay?

(And then they were on the E&M unit in physics and talking about magnetism in class, and Sokka couldn’t help but feel the irresistible pull of curiosity lingering with each glance over to that mysterious boy.)

The more Sokka looked for the boy, the more he found him in every single class—from chemistry to calculus and everything in between. The boy always sat by himself, a pile of textbooks forming a silent wall between him and the rest of the class while everyone was idly chit-chatting before the bell rang. There was always a single ballpoint pen on the top-right corner of his desk, protecting the delicately written notes in the notebook below.

(Sokka would know. Sokka had seen the boy’s handwriting before, on tests that they handed in during physics or homework assignments from econ. The boy’s handwriting was sharp and small, each letter wavering unsteadily on the blue lines etched across the page. _They look like tiny calls for help_ , Sokka thought to himself. _I wonder if he needs help_.)

And one day, he finally saw it, saw a name peeking out from the top of a stack of homework assignments: Zuko.

(The syllables cut deep into Sokka’s tongue. They tasted nostalgic, yet new.)

 _Zuko_ , Sokka remembered a girl whispering to her friend about the boy. _His name’s Zuko_.

 _Zuko? You don’t mean_ the _Zuko?_

 _He’s bad news_.

_Did you hear about what his dad did—?_

_You better stay away from him_.

 _But he looks so sad_.

That last one burst forth from Sokka’s own mind one day during lunch, over a bag of potato chips and a bottle of soda he swiped from his band teacher’s private stash in his office. (Not that Bato would mind, especially when it came to Sokka—star sax player and section leader extraordinaire.)

“What did you say?” Katara asked, eyes wide as she almost dropped her water bottle in shock.

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking about that new guy, y’know,” Sokka replied as he dug around the bottom of his chip bag to retrieve the last of the salt-encrusted crumbs. His fingers come up empty, salt dotting his fingertips as he licks them.

“What new guy?” Aang looked up from his carrots and hummus. He was sitting on the piano bench, one of the many benches from the practice rooms in the back of the music division in their high school. It was usually the three of them—Katara, Aang, and Sokka—hiding in the requisite band-geek-lunch-area, save for the occasional freshman who came in to use a practice room to record their All-State audition tapes.

Sokka shrugged. “I dunno. He’s in my calc class. And my physics class, I think. I think his name’s Zuko or something, but I’m not sure.” 

Katara placed a hand on Sokka’s shoulder. “I don’t know about him, Sokka. Haven’t you heard the rumors about him? Like what he did at his previous school? With his teacher? Or why he suddenly transferred to our school one day for no reason at all?”

“That’s just what rumors are,” Sokka shook off his sister’s hand and resumed his crumb-crusade. “Plus, why does any of that matter?”

“I don’t know about this, Sokka.” Katara shook her head. “He sounds like bad news or something.”

“I think you’re overreacting.” 

“And I—no, we—” Katara motioned towards Aang, “—we don’t think it’s a good idea, okay?”

So Sokka sighed and bottled it all up, all up in that empty, oily chip bag, and tossed it out in the garbage can when the bell rang for fourth period. But then he saw the boy—no, _Zuko_ —sitting near the window in calculus, and all the thoughts flew straight back into his head, like the row of sparrows sitting on the utility pole outside, hovering just tantalizingly out of reach.

In between discussions about derivatives and differentials, Sokka snuck a look at Zuko once more. The boy looked so thin, so delicate, Sokka swore that if he opened the window, Zuko would simply blow away into the wind, a tiny sparrow amongst all the others flapping in the sky.

Like a magnet, something latched onto Sokka’s heart and refused to let go.

And the next day, Sokka showed up to lunch with an extra Spam musubi in a second paper bag and a lump in his throat. He ignored Katara and Aang’s protests as he walked past the practice rooms and straight into the library, breaking through the sea of students chattering in the computer lab next door. Sokka walked past shelves of Carroll and Christie, through the stacks of Fleming and Fitzgerald before settling at the table between Seuss and Shakespeare.

Zuko looked up at him, and Sokka’s heart nearly sank in his lungs.

Curious, hazel-hue met bright, sea-blue.

“Can I help you with something?” And _oh_ , that voice. Sokka was taken aback. Never in a million years would he have expected _that_ voice, a voice so smooth, Sokka thought he could drown in it if he wasn’t careful. Zuko’s voice sounded like the sea, calming, soothing, a voice tinged with the slightest bit of confusion, as if he was wondering why someone would come up to talk to him in the first place.

“Oh! Oh, uh—” and Sokka was fumbling with his words again, consonants clattering against vowels as he struggled to form a coherent sentence, “—I was wondering if you wanted, uh.”

And suddenly, the library was entirely too stifling, the paper bag too heavy, the gaze too intimidating as Sokka looked everywhere, anywhere but at the boy in front of him.

 _Katara was right_ , Sokka thought. _This was a bad idea_.

But he plunged forwards anyways, dropping himself in the chair opposite Zuko and pushing out the paper bag, a peace offering that came to a stop in the center of the table.

“Thought you could, uh.” Sokka twiddled his thumbs. “Thought you could use this ‘cause, y’know, uh. I don’t know, okay? Just that, uh, my mom made extra today and told me to share with my friends and I—”

The words floated away from his brain when he saw Zuko shaking and realized that the other boy was laughing, a hand cupped to his mouth as he giggled quietly in the library.

“You don’t even know me,” Zuko murmured in between tiny hiccups, eyes shining in amusement. “And I don’t know you.”

“My mom always said the best way to make friends was food. So, like.” Sokka pulled out his own paper bag and waved it in the air before pulling out his own Spam musubi. “Like, see? I got one, too.”

“Oh, okay.” Zuko smiled weakly as he tugged the paper bag from the center of the table towards himself. “It’s very nice of you—?”

“Sokka. My name’s Sokka.”

The smile bloomed softly across Zuko’s face. “It’s very nice to meet you, Sokka. I’m Zuko. Thank you for the food.”

And as Sokka unwrapped the plastic wrap and took a bite, he swore this was the tastiest, most delicious Spam musubi he had ever had in his life.

△▽△▽△

The ache from meeting Lu Ten in The Jasmine Dragon follows Sokka home, through the bedroom door, and onto the bed. It wraps itself up around Sokka’s lungs, a painful reminder of what-ifs and has-beens. It lingers around when Sokka finally pulls himself up and fixes up a bowl of instant ramen for himself and a portion of dog food for Foo Foo, the puppy running circles around Sokka’s feet when he finishes eating. 

“I’m an idiot, aren’t I,” Sokka wonders out loud, chopsticks clattering against the dining table with a metallic clang. “A fucking idiot.”

Foo Foo barks.

“You don’t even know him, Foo Foo.” Sokka stands up and walks over to the sink to do the dishes. “You have no idea what I went through.”

Foo Foo grunts.

“Great. Now I’m talking to my _dog_ , for Tui’s sake.” The bowl goes into the drying rack, Sokka wiping his hands on a towel before he heads back into his bedroom. The slip of paper burns hot in his pocket, and he pulls it out and tosses it on his desk. He doesn’t think he can look at it again right now, and he swears his nerves are doing something funky with his brain right now. Sokka can’t think straight, every single thing in his mind plagued by the thought of Zuko, always Zuko—

He could really use a shower right now. Maybe it’ll help him clear his thoughts—or better yet, give him some ideas on what to write next so Suki doesn’t get all up in his case about his deadlines—or drafts, for the matter. The Microsoft document sits empty on Sokka’s laptop, a reminder that he still hasn’t gotten around to organizing his thoughts quite yet.

The water pounds relentlessly against his back when Sokka steps into the shower, a steady staccato that echoes the pounding of his heart as he tries to wash away his problems, so sticky and stubborn, clinging to his skin as he takes a deep breath.

 _Nice thoughts, Sokka. Nice thoughts_ —

_But why was Zuko there?_

Great. Nice thoughts over.

When Sokka comes out of the shower, he stares wearily at the steam-hidden mirror above the sink and reaches out to wipe away the condensation. His face becomes more and more visible with each swipe. It’s a clean-cut face, Sokka likes to think, a sharp jawline accompanied by the tiniest hint of a five o’clock shadow peeking out at the edges, a stark contrast to the silver streaks painted haphazardly through his dark hair.

(“Premature graying”, Katara likes to call it. Sokka just thinks it’s a sign of stress.)

(“It makes you look more distinguished, like some professor or something”, Suki had joked one day when she dropped in to check up on him. _Like you teach some comp lit class instead of writing books for kids_.)

 _Not like I’m writing anything right now_ , Sokka scoffs now, the condensation slowly creeping back across the mirror in the muggy bathroom. His thoughts have been thrown in a loop, a metaphorical whiplash as he struggles to keep track of everything whirling around in his mind. The shower hasn’t done much for him in terms of relaxation, and he’s pretty sure he’s even more anxious, now that his thoughts are out in the open. 

_Maybe you should write it down somewhere_ , he thinks to himself as he pads out of the bathroom, a towel slung around his waist and another thrown around his shoulders to catch the raindrops from his hair. There’s a pad of paper open on his desk, and Sokka wastes no time in pouring his thoughts into words on the page, a jumbled train of chicken scratch script that threatens to derail at the slightest wobble of the blue-lined track.

(Sokka doesn’t like his handwriting. It’s far too illegible, too ugly, too _personal_ to read. He’d rather write out his thoughts on his laptop.)

He can’t help but realize that every single thought, every single line ends on the same word.

Zuko.

 _Zuko_ , his heart sighs and clenches that much tighter. The name teeters on the edge of Sokka’s tongue, reminding him of melancholic memories he doesn’t want to remember right now. It’s been over ten years, but Sokka can feel the tiniest itch against his eyelids, and he’s too much of a coward to admit just how much the mere mention of Zuko has shaken him up.

 _You could back out of this, you know_ , his heart thumps quietly. _Just forget that Lu Ten ever asked about this_.

But Lu Ten, and Zuko—Sokka rummages around his briefcase and pulls out the envelope with shaking hands. The twitching intensifies when he shakes the envelope slightly and the photograph slides out onto the desk. He scrutinizes Zuko’s face once more, every curve and jagged edge, trying to memorize each eyelash, each freckle in his mind. The ache grows stronger, and by the time Sokka manages to pull himself away from the photograph, he feels like his entire body is exhausted from the sheer effort of not breaking down right then and there.

Sokka whistles, and the sharp sound pierces through the apartment. He hears a thundering of puppy paws against the floor before Foo Foo bursts into the room with a bang, leaping into Sokka’s lap and smothering his face in puppy kisses.

“Foo Foo,” Sokka murmurs as he hugs the wriggly puppy close to his heart. “Foo Foo. I need your help.”

Foo Foo pauses his frantic ministrations and stares quizzically at Sokka, his dark eyes betraying nothing but all the wisdom of a puppy.

“See that?” Sokka maneuvers the puppy around so he can show him the photograph. “That’s Zuko.”

Foo Foo wiggles around to stare at Sokka.

“He is—well, was—he was my best friend in high school.” The words feel uncomfortable, almost prickly on Sokka’s tongue. “And today I met someone who wants me to look for him.”

The puppy sneezes.

“And I don’t know, Foo Foo. I told the guy that I’d help him, but I really don’t know.” Sokka hesitates. “I don’t think I can deal with this right now, y’know? With my deadlines and my drafting and my— _hey! Drop it!_ ”

Sokka barely manages to grab a hold of the edge of the photograph between his fingertips, and he tugs it gently from Foo Foo’s mouth. The puppy may be stubborn, but Sokka holds his own, and after a few tense seconds, Foo Foo whines and drops the photograph back on the table, puppy drool and all.

“What did I say about putting random things in your mouth?” Sokka pulls Foo Foo back into his chest and bops the puppy’s head sharply while admonishing him. “This is my personal stuff, okay? It’s off limits.”

Foo Foo glares at Sokka.

“Oh, c’mon. Don’t be like that.” Sokka retrieves a tissue and cleans the drool from the photograph, his hands lingering for a second more as he wipes Zuko’s face. He leans back in his chair and scritches the puppy in between the ears. Sokka knows just how much Foo Foo likes his ear-scritches, especially if the closed eyes and lolling tongue mean anything at all. “It’s just that, y’know. I’m not sure what I should do, right?”

Foo Foo coos.

“So, bud.” Sokka scratches under the puppy’s chin. “You got any ideas?”

Foo Foo lets out a stinky puppy yawn. 

“Guess I should ask a real person, shouldn’t I.”

△▽△▽△

“Hello, this is Suki speaking.”

“Hey, yourself.”

A gasp. “Sokka?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

Another gasp. “You never call me, you know.”

“Well, there’s a first for everything.” A pause. “Listen. I wanna ask you about something.”

Frantic shuffling ensues. “Is it about your deadline? Because I just talked to Kyoshi about it yesterday, and even though she’s not a hundred percent on board, I managed to stretch your deadline out for a solid half a week—”

“Suki.”

“—but if you’d like, I can talk to her again to ask if you could get a _full_ week—”

“Suki.”

“—not like it’s going to help much anyways, especially if you’re trying to get—”

“ _Suki Xia_.”

“—block. Yeah, what’s up?”

“What the _fuck_ did you do.”

“Oh.” A snort. “So you’re calling to ask about _that_.”

“Yeah, _that_. Let’s not beat around the bush, okay?”

“Sure?”

“You knew about it, right? The whole Lu Ten thing.”

“Oh, Lu Ten?” The clack of a keyboard. “Lu Ten Huo. Great dude, solid business acumen, got a smart head on those shoulders.”

“Suki, please.”

“Okay, fine. I knew it, okay? Even set up the whole thing for you.”

“But why?”

“I just thought you needed a new approach, right? And this guy happened to reach out to ask me about a request he had for you. So go on. Take the chance.”

“But Suki, it’s Zuko.”

“I know it’s Zuko.”

“You _knew?_ ”

“Exactly.”

Silence.

“Suki, you know I can’t do this.”

“That’s a bullshit excuse, and you know it.”

“But Suki, seriously. It’s not because I won’t. It’s because I can’t.”

A pause. “Sokka. Listen to me.”

“Okay.”

“How long have I known you?”

“A while now?”

“And how many times have I seen you get into this rut?”

“It’s not a rut, okay. It’s just, like, like— _ugh_. Fine, yeah. You caught me.”

“Are you finally admitting to your tendency to overthink things?”

“If you wanna call it that, then yeah.”

A sigh. “Have you ever thought about doing something about that.”

A pause. “Where are you going with this?”

“Sokka, you’ve been so lost in your past, you need to focus on your present.”

“And you think bringing in Zuko, _a person from my past_ , is going to help. Flawless logic.”

“Don’t get all snarky on me now, hotshot. You know what I mean.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Really?” A huff. “Sokka. I know that Zuko’s been on your mind all this time, whether you want to admit that or not. I _also_ know that you’re not going to take the incentive to reach out, so as your long-suffering editor and dear friend, I decided to do the hard work for you.”

“Suki, _please_.”

“Sokka, I’m serious.”

More silence.

“Aight, fine. I’ll do it.”

“Do what?”

“I’ll go find Zuko and tell this Lu Ten dude that Zuko’s fine. And then it’ll be over, right?”

“Sokka, that’s not what I meant—”

“I’ve already made up my mind. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“... Are you sure about this, Sokka?”

“Don’t get all soft on me now, Suki.”

“Okay then. I’ll talk to you later.”

The line clicks.

△▽△▽△

So this is it.

Midie Xiang.

Sokka unfolds the paper from his meeting with Lu Ten and squints down at the words.

_What kind of name is Midie Xiang?_

Honestly, Sokka hadn’t known what to expect when he pulled up the address that Lu Ten had scrawled on the paper during their meeting in The Jasmine Dragon a few days ago. A large city? Unlikely. But a quaint, seaside town with less than two thousand people? Now that’s intriguing.

Sokka idly clicks through Google Images. There’s a beach, for one, with stunning sunsets against an impressive rock erupting out of the center of the shining sands with billowing tides frolicking about. More pictures show a lush forest, gigantic conifers surrounded by swathes of wildflowers dotting along the cliffs, cloud-white waves lapping at the edges of the rock face. And throughout all of this, pictures of a small town, the lampposts painting sharp, shining needles into the sky. 

It looks like a writer’s paradise, and Sokka realizes that even if he doesn’t end up finding Zuko through all of this, he’s definitely going to be getting some writing done. There’s nothing quite as inspiring as the sun and the sea, and if he closes his eyes, he can almost hear the thundering waves in his ear, almost smell the sea-salt breeze lingering in his nose. 

Midie Xiang looks absolutely beautiful, and Sokka knows that deep in his heart, it’s exactly the kind of place Zuko would escape to and call his home.

Sighing, Sokka pulls up Airbnb and types in his information, filtering through apartment and long-term listings before he comes across one that catches his attention.

 _Cozy cottage available in the heart of Midie Xiang_.

Sokka hovers his cursor over the Airbnb listing and clicks on it. One two-room cottage, fully furnished with a kitchenette and separate bathroom, winks up at him. It’s perfect, not to mention the fact that it’s pet-friendly, too.

Bringing Foo Foo along is a no brainer, of course. Sokka knows that Katara and Aang have their hands full with Appa and Momo, not to mention the sheer amount of hair and grooming they have to deal with. And Suki’s apartment doesn’t allow pets. (No matter how many times Sokka tries to sneak in Foo Foo, the landlord somehow always manages to find out. Sokka’s not about to risk his friend being evicted just so his puppy has a place to stay for a few months.) The pet-friendly Airbnb is just a plus. 

Sokka scrolls down through the listing. The cottage is close to the center of town, a perfect place for him to begin his search.

( _I mean, it’s less than two thousand people, so it shouldn’t be too hard, right?_ )

( _Easy for you to say. You’re not the one doing the searching_.)

( _I’m your fucking brain cell, for crying out loud. Of course I’m doing the searching_.)

( _... Good point_.)

Sighing, Sokka clicks through the host’s information, a serious-looking elderly man by the name of Piandao with the bare-bones profile to match. It seems that Piandao and his husband had moved to Midie Xiang a few years ago for their retirement, and they’ve built and opened up a cottage on the edge of their property for any curious guests hoping to get a taste of the seaside life. Sokka’s not quite sure what it is, but there’s something about Piandao that feels familiar, like he’s seen him around before in some other lifetime. 

His cursor hovers over the booking button, uncertain about taking the next step.

Two months. Two sun-filled, sea-swept months to find Zuko. 

Sokka looks down at the photograph on his desk and smooths it out, unfurling the crinkled edges.

 _I guess this is it_ , he thinks, and he clicks his mouse.

△▽△▽△

The road to Midie Xiang is long and winding, the twisting path cutting deep against the mountainside. Sokka hadn’t realized just how tall the peaks would be, how his ears would be constantly popping and adjusting to the air pressure outside. In between the soft rock pouring from his speakers (the radio had died to crackling static a while back) and Foo Foo’s excited yips as the puppy spun around in circles on the shotgun seat, Sokka has more than enough entertainment to keep him occupied on the long car ride ahead.

He’s never noticed just how much Foo Foo likes car rides until now. When Sokka had first loaded everything into his car,plopping the puppy down in the front seat, Foo Foo had looked up at him with suspicious eyes as if to say, _are we going to the vet, because if we’re going to the vet, I’m going to throw a temper tantrum right now and there’s nothing you can do to stop me_. But Sokka didn’t turn in the direction towards the vet, and by the time the car has plowed up one mountain and down the other side, Foo Foo is standing straight up, front paws on the dashboard, tail wagging as he takes in all his surroundings, a puppy experiencing sheer sensory overload for the first time. 

“Calm down, bud.” Sokka laughs. “Don’t get all excited on me, now. You haven’t even seen the ocean yet.”

And at the sound of the _ocean_ , Foo Foo barks excitedly.

“Hey, hey! What did I say about barking in the car?”

Sokka’s eyes are still fixed on the road ahead, but he swears he can hear Foo Foo snort over the sound of Billy Joel’s _Piano Man_. 

The GPS takes them through forests of cedar and oak that loom overhead and block out the sunlight, over a rumbling river that cuts a line straight through the massive forest, past acre upon acre of lowland farms, with herds of cows and the occasional horse looking up when Sokka speeds past. 

The drive reminds him of the childhood trips he used to have with Katara, the ones where their parents would wake them up early in the morning just so they could get to the beach by noon. Sokka remembers coolers packed with soda cans and fresh sandwiches, a trunk filled with towels and kites, a car ride practically bursting with “ _are we there yet?_ ”s and “ _but I’m hungry, Mom_ ”s and more “ _are we there yet?_ ”s. Then they’d finally arrive at the beach and Sokka would run barefoot, straight across the hot sand and into the icy-cold water from the beachside streams feeding out into the ocean. His feet would get all tingly and numb, maybe even cramp up as he would hobble back to the beach umbrella that his parents set up, a grimace on his face as his mom plastered on a thick layer of sunscreen as punishment. 

And then Sokka and Katara would run up and down the beach, building sand castles and catching hermit crabs and collecting seashells that would end up in the cracks of the family car. There would be ham sandwiches and Spam musubi and cold soda pop for lunch before his dad would sneak away to buy gigantic ice cream cones for both Sokka and Katara—and there they’d sit there, the four of them, watching as the sun lazily danced across the sky before it got too cold and it was time to go home.

The memories wash over Sokka, a gentle tide across his thoughts as he presses on, determined to make it to Midie Xiang by nightfall.

And he almost makes it, he really does—he’s just a few miles away now—before Sokka feels a thump vibrating through the car and the steering wheel shifts slightly towards the left.

 _Shit_.

Sokka pulls over to the side of the road and climbs out of the car, looking down and groaning at the flat tire. His car has been due for maintenance for a while now but he hasn’t gotten around to taking it into the shop, and here he is, a few miles out from his destination, with a blown tire and a confused-looking dog who clambers over the center console and out the driver’s side. And of _course_ , as luck would have it, there’s absolutely no service out here, not even one bar for Sokka to call for help.

“Guess we’re stuck out here for a bit, bud.” Sokka looks down at the puppy. “Got any ideas on what we should do?”

Foo Foo’s look screams _you’re an idiot, Sokka, for forgetting your car maintenance appointment_.

“Right you are, bud.” Sokka scratches his wolftail looking down the road and back at his car. He’s pretty sure he can walk the last few miles into town, maybe ask around for directions before finding a place to camp out for the night. “I mean, you up for a walk?”

Foo Foo’s face immediately shifts into _now that’s more like it_.

“Walk it is, then.” Sokka meanders over to the backseat and yanks the door open, retrieving his duffel bag of essential items and hiking it up on his back. He reaches down to pick up Foo Foo’s leash and jangles it slightly. The puppy doesn’t look impressed one bit.

“C’mon, then. Let’s go.”

The mid-afternoon sun beats down on Sokka’s back, and he pulls on a baseball cap and tucks his wolftail back for good measure, pausing every so often to pour out a little water for Foo Foo to drink before he takes a sip of water himself. The road is lined with sprays of wildflowers against sloping hills, a sea of yellows, pinks, and oranges so bright and thick, Sokka swears he could swim straight through them. The wildflowers wave happily in the wind, and Sokka has to hold Foo Foo back before the puppy takes a nosedive into a particularly tempting bunch of purple foxgloves.

“They’re bad for you, you know,” he lectures the puppy as they continue forward, footsteps plodding against the sunburnt asphalt, the smell of flowers and salt floating in the air. “You can’t just try to eat every single thing you see now.”

Foo Foo ignores him, nose pointed straight up in the air as he trots as far ahead from Sokka as the leash will let him.

 _Dogs these days_ , Sokka rolls his eyes. He takes a deep breath, grinning at the salt-sharp smell of the ocean cutting straight through his senses and invigorating his bones. It’s practically paradise, and Sokka can feel his strength returning to him, bit by bit, with each step he takes. 

By the time Sokka makes it past the last ridge, he’s exhausted, the duffel bag pressing into his shoulder in an uncomfortable position, his muscles begging for a rest. Sokka barely has time to catch his breath when he notices the town in front of him, a row of shops in various shades of blues and greys and greens, all lined up neatly along a main street. Sokka recognizes the lampposts from the images he saw online, and he watches as they neatly blink on simultaneously, bathing everything in a soft, glowing light as the sun continues its descent towards the horizon. 

Sokka checks his watch—it’s late afternoon, and if he tries, he’s pretty sure he can get some decent service to pull up the cottage’s address so he can make it for the night. He spins around, eyes searching for any sign, anything that can point him in the direction he needs to go. The shops are quiet, the sound of creaking signs echoing in the empty street over the soft crashing of the waves ashore.

He’s so caught up in the moment, he barely realizes that something’s tapping on his shoulder, a soft nudge that has him whirling around in surprise, Foo Foo yipping at his feet.

Sokka’s eyes widen in disbelief.

“ _It’s you_ ,” he breathes, his words swallowed by the song of the sea.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s a letter in the mailbox again.

The envelope is eggshell white and throws the tiniest of shadows against the mailbox itself when he pulls it out, eyebrows furrowing as he scrutinizes the handwriting on the front. His name is etched in sharp, razor-thin letters of dark blue that practically leap from the page and into his ears. He can already hear his sister’s tone, light with just a touch of teasing in her voice that reminds him of fast-paced car rides, of late-night fast-food trips, of hesitant side-hugs and smirks.

“My therapist told me that writing letters is good for getting things off my chest,” his sister had said, once, when they met up for a bit of lunch and a brief walk in the park next to her workplace—back when he was still in the city. “She says I have trouble articulating my thoughts.”

“Whatever that means,” she added with a small shrug of her shoulders. “I think I do a pretty good job of it though. Right, Zuzu?”

“Yeah,” he said, hesitating for the slightest second, which only earned him a raised eyebrow and a light punch in his left shoulder.

“Hey, hey.” His sister had poked him in the arm, eyes shining with hope. “When you, y’know. When you leave, can I send you letters?”

He pulled out his phone and stared at it in confusion. “But we already text—”

“That’s _not_ the point, Zuzu!” He watched her stomp her feet in agitation, the tiniest bit of her impatience peeking through. “I need to physically write out my thoughts and shit, and I want to send it to you, okay?”

“Okay?” he had replied, the edges of his mouth curling in a smile when he saw the grin on her face, a grin blooming across her face.

He remembers the first letter he ever got from her in the mailbox. It had been eggshell white, the address slightly smudged in ink. He had tossed the envelope back and forth in his hands, marveling at the thick creases hiding the folded pages within, running his finger along the jagged texture of the stamp as he looked down and read his sister’s handwriting, neat and small along the center before pressing a kiss on the envelope just so. The letter was so full of uncertainties—both good and bad—and he didn’t know if he was ready to face all of that yet.

(There’s just too much to think about and too much to unpack, and he’s always—he’s never had a chance to stay in one place for long, and he’s used to keeping things packed up and ready to go.)

This letter—this letter he tucks under his arm before he pulls out the shop key and wriggles it through the lock on the door. The door creaks wearily when he pushes open, hinges squealing in protest when he reaches over to switch on the light. A warm glow settles overhead, soft and soothing, nothing like the harsh and sea-soaked sunlight outside. The glow touches row after row, shelf after shelf of books, a celebration of colorful hues that paints the entire shop in a rainbow. Sighing, he reaches and flips the sign over to “OPEN”.

 _All The World’s A Page_ is ready for business.

He makes his way towards the back of the shop, rolling up his sleeves and folding them just so, just enough for the slightest hint of a wrinkle to remind him of the ironing he forgot to do the day before. There’s a tiny room in the back of the shop, a room with a window and curtains and an electric kettle next to the cabinet filled with teas of all sizes and smells. There’s a desk here, too, a small one topped with a precarious assortment of mugs and pens and paper that would be enough to give his sister a heart attack if she ever saw it. He pulls open the drawer underneath the desk and sneezes.

A stack of identical eggshell envelopes stares up at him morosely, each letter covered in the same, sharp font as before.

She’s been writing letters to him for a while now.

He hasn’t opened any of them.

The latest letter flutters and lands on top of the stack before he closes up the drawer, tucking away that part of his life into the safety of the tiny room. He puts some water into the kettle to heat, pulls out a few containers of tea leaves from the cabinet, and pretends that he doesn’t know that he’ll always choose tieguanyin over tieluohan every time. Tieguanyin reminds him of his mother, delicate yet strong, a memory seared in his mind of laughter and sunshine before it fades into a burn. His mother is—no, _was_ —his mother was a true iron goddess. He’ll only ever remember her that way.

The electric kettle clicks off. He drops a few pearls of tieguanyin into a teapot and pours in the water, watching as the leaves unfurl into a tiny, fragrant forest in the pot, a small cloud of bubbles bursting on the surface. The tea is golden and fragrant, a shimmering pool that ripples when he pours it into a clean mug. The smell reminds him of home—and then it doesn’t, and he feels a bitter taste of something against his tongue that he’d rather not remember—

The tea burns hot and fast when he gulps it down. It masks the bitterness, his tongue numb as he places his mug on the desk with trembling hands and a stuttering heart.

One look at the mug—it’s the one with a tiny rabbit holding paws with another larger rabbit, the words “hoppy birthday bapi!” written underneath in jumbly, kid-writing— and he’s missing his little girl all over again. He wonders if he should have brought her along with him to work, if she would have had more fun exploring the bookshop, maybe curl up on a beanbag in the loft upstairs and read a book or two. Mi-chan usually sticks to him like a bumblebee to a flower, clumsily hovering around his legs, tugging on the edge of his sleeve when she wants to get his attention. He can still feel her hand wrapped around his index finger from this morning when they walked towards Grandpa Piandao’s house. Mi-chan had wrinkled her nose when he gave her a quick kiss, giggling at the gentle nudge when their foreheads came together with a soft bump. Mi-chan had waved happily as he turned around to go, her eyes crinkling as she cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled a good-bye at him.

“Have a good day at work, bapi!”

The sudden tinkling of bells startles him out of his thoughts. There’s someone here already, and he reties his hair into a messy bun before going out to help his customers.

The rest of the day passes by in a humdrum of Hemingway, and before he knows it, the sun has dipped closer to the horizon and it’s time to close up shop. He cleans up the counter, rearranges the beanbags and the chairs, checks the desk one last time—all the letters are still there, of course—before he walks towards the door.

A flash of silver catches his eye outside the window—and it’s gone again, somewhere out in the unknown. But it’s just enough for his heart to speed up, as if he’s waiting for something new to arrive.

Zuko wonders what this feeling is.

It scares him.

△▽△▽△

“ _It’s you_ ,” Sokka breathes, his words swallowed by the song of the sea.

Sokka's not usually one to believe in fate and things like that. He's more of a realist, honestly. The irony isn't lost on him—he writes _fiction_ for children for a living—but there are definitely times in his life where Sokka's had a brush with something he can't explain. Like the time he went outside for a walk and found a twenty-dollar bill on the ground. Or that moment when he opened the fridge and found a full carton of eggs he didn't remember buying. It's small things like these that keep him on his toes, that feed the slightest bit of spontaneity in his life.

(Sokka thinks that it's purely coincidence.)

So when he first feels that tap on the shoulder, he's half-expecting it to be like one of those K-dramas Suki binge watches in secret, the kind where the protagonist just so happens to find the person that they're looking for.

And in the warm light of the sunset, rays scattering over his gaze, Sokka almost believes it for a second. The man in front of him is tall, long hair tied in a ponytail—and then the wind shifts, the light dims, and Sokka's heart tumbles in his chest.

It's not Zuko.

And for a moment, time slows to a standstill, each second ebbing and flowing like the waves off the beach as Sokka stares in confusion and wonders why his eyes had deceived him in the first place.

“Pardon me. Do I know you?” The man standing in front of him looks perplexed. “You seem lost. Do you need help?”

“Uh, actually. Yeah, that’d be great!” And the tides return to normal, seconds speeding back to clock-driven time. Sokka nearly drops his phone as he places his duffel bag on the ground and clumsily wraps Foo Foo’s leash around his arm a few times so the puppy can’t run away. Foo Foo seems utterly mesmerized by the stranger staring in front of him, so much so that he doesn’t even bark when the man looks down at him.

“And who might you be, little one?” the man rumbles.

“Oh, Foo Foo?” Sokka’s still swiping around on his phone. “He’s my puppy.”

Foo Foo coos quietly and tries to hide behind Sokka’s legs.

“Aw, c’mon, bud.” Sokka shakes the leash and clicks his tongue. “You can say hi, can’t you?”

Foo Foo squeezes even closer to Sokka’s calves.

“Oh, I’m sorry about that.” Sokka’s never seen his puppy act this way before. “He’s usually not like this.”

He turns his attention back to the puppy. “Foo Foo?”

The man squats down and pats his knees. “So that’s your name? Foo Foo is—ah, hm—is a very lovely name.”

Foo Foo’s nose twitches ever so slightly.

“I promise he doesn’t bite,” Sokka says, the ever-present embarrassment of owning a pet finally rearing its ugly head.

“Well, I promise _I_ don’t bite.” The man snaps his fingers, and it’s like a switch goes off in Foo Foo’s head. Sokka yelps when the puppy surges forward and sniffs at the man’s hands curiously, and he sighs when he sees the slightest bit of puppy-pink tongue darting out as Foo Foo licks the man’s knees.

“Foo Foo!”

“Oh, it’s fine.” The man’s laughing slightly, a gruff noise that sounds like rolling thunder. He pats Foo Foo’s head and scratches the puppy’s ears just so. Sokka watches as Foo Foo rolls around on the ground in satisfaction. “Now then, how can I help?”

“Help?” Sokka’s struggling to remember what he needed help with in the first place, all thoughts consumed by seeing Foo Foo throw himself at this literal stranger’s feet.

“You look lost?”

“Oh! I am.” Sokka scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “I’m trying to find this one place that I’m supposed to be staying at.”

“Hm? I might be able to help with that.” The stranger stands up and brushes down the front of his shorts, Foo Foo whining at the loss of his impromptu playtime. Sokka pulls up the Airbnb app to the listing and shows it to the stranger. The other man’s eyes light up in surprise.

“Ah. So you’re Sokka, then.”

_Huh? How does he know who I am?_

Sokka squints at the man, from his dark, silver-striped ponytail down to his sandal-clad feet. The man doesn’t look that old—he actually looks like he could be Sokka’s dad, not that Hakoda would enjoy that comparison—a heavy-looking tote bag swinging from one of his arms. He’s familiar, in that weird, you-remind-me-of-that-uncle-but-not kind of way, and Sokka scratches his brain to remember who this is—

_Wait, haven’t I seen that face before?_

“Are you—oh!” The lightbulb goes off in Sokka’s head when he finally puts two and two together. “You’re the Airbnb guy, right? Piandao?”

“Ah, yes.” The man smiles slightly and extends his arm. “I see that you made it to Midie Xiang in one piece. Welcome, welcome!”

“It’s nice to be here, yeah.” Sokka straightens his baseball cap and reaches out to shake Piandao’s hand—it’s dry and rough and weathered, and Sokka tries not to flinch at the sheer power in his hand.

“I suppose that you’ve had a long day, yes?” Piandao motions towards the duffel bag. “I’m just about to head home myself, if you’d like to come along. It’s not that far of a walk.”

“Sounds great.” Sokka bends back down to retrieve his duffel bag, muscles aching when he slings it on his back.

Piandao starts walking, with long, swift strides that have Sokka power-walking just to keep up. Foo Foo trots happily next to both of them, the puppy pausing every so often to sniff at the sidewalk before continuing on. Now that Sokka has a chance to look around, he sees the lights from the shops blinking out, one by one.

“You came right at closing time, my friend,” Piandao says as they walk under a sign that reads _To Bee or Not To Bee_ in sleek cursive. “We tend to close up quite early, especially on the weekdays.”

“Really?”

“What can I say?” Piandao shrugs. “Most folks go home around the time the sun sets so they have some time to relax or walk around on the beach.”

He points towards something in the distance, and Sokka can make out the slightest shadow of a lighthouse perched on a cliff, dark and silent. “And that’s the lighthouse.”

“Isn’t it lit?”

“No, it was decommissioned a few years ago, actually.” Piandao’s sandals thud against the sidewalk. “But you can still walk up there if you want. It’s a pretty nice walk, although I’d suggest that you go in the morning when there’s still light out. The trail tends to be a bit steep.”

“Maybe I’ll do that tomorrow, after I get some rest.”

“Sounds like a good idea. You look like you’re all prepared for your stay,” Piandao says as they walk down the street, their shadows jagged and slanted in the light of the lampposts. “How was your trip here?”

“Funny story, actually.” Sokka grimaces as he remembers how he just left his car right there, on the side of the road. “I drove here until my tire blew out and I had to park on the side of the road.”

“Oh, goodness.” Piandao shakes his head, sympathy laced in his voice. “And then you—?”

“Just walked here, I guess.” Sokka readjusts the duffel bag and steals a glance at Foo Foo. The puppy has been surprisingly quiet for the most part, and Sokka wonders if he’s tired and needs some rest. “Was more worried about the little guy, but he didn’t complain or anything.”

“You know, my husband can help to fix up your car for you.” Piandao sounds thoughtful, his footsteps slowing ever so slightly. “If you let me know where your car is, we can bring it in and fix it up.”

“Really?” Sokka feels a surge of hope in his chest. “You could do that? My car’s actually out on the side of the main road. I think it’s probably, like, five miles out?”

“Mhm.” Piandao grunts, and Sokka’s eyes are suddenly flooded with light when the other man whips out a phone with a blindingly bright screen. For a brief moment, Piandao looks exactly like his father, especially with the frenzied tapping and the screen shining, and the occasional muttering that all older men seem to do these days.

“He says he’s on his way, that he’ll tow your car to his shop so he can work on it tomorrow.” Piandao shoves the phone back into his pocket. Sokka sends a small prayer up to the spirits for saving his retinas from any further damage.

They start walking, turning onto a dark, dimly-lit road, the only light coming from the streetlights on the main street, and for a moment, Sokka feels a sense of doubt wiggling in his gut. Piandao looks like a trusty guy—not to mention the fact that his husband is literally driving around in the middle-of-darkness trying to find his car—but Sokka can’t help but feel a little apprehensive. Then Foo Foo’s nuzzing up against his legs comfortingly, tiny pawsteps echoing on the pavement, and Sokka feels just a bit better with the puppy walking next to him.

It feels like they’ve been wading through darkness for an eternity before a glow appears on the horizon. The house looks homey and welcoming, with a large porch and two rocking chairs rolling in the breeze. Sokka stands off to the side as Piandao climbs up the steps and fiddles with the door, sliding his tote bag inside.

“I’m going to take you to the cottage,” Piandao says without preamble. “Watch your step. There’s a bit of a hill.”

It’s gotten considerably darker since they first left the town, but Sokka’s still able to see the haziest of shadowy outlines in the faint moonlight as Piandao walks in front of him, feet plodding against the grass. The smell of salt is faint now, the bitterness replaced by fragrant flowers and the slightest bit of spice on the faint breeze. Sokka can’t see Foo Foo anymore, but he can still feel the puppy’s tail thumping against his legs, a tiny staccato of excitement.

“Here we are,” Piandao announces when they approach a particularly imposing shadow, moonlight reflecting off the windows. Sokka hears a door jiggling and a door swinging, and he follows Piandao inside the shadow of the cottage. Something clicks, and the whole cottage is bathed in light, Sokka wincing and rubbing his eyes to adjust to the newfound brightness. He makes out the dull edges of a sofa and a small dining table, a few chairs scattered about and two doors off to the side.

“That door leads to the bathroom, and that one’s for the bedroom.” Piandao slides off his sandals and walks into the main room of the cottage, pausing only to drop a key on the dining table. “If there’s anything wrong with the plumbing or the stove, let me know and I’ll come over to take a look at it.”

Sokka pulls off his shoes, unclips Foo Foo’s leash from his collar, and walks towards the nearest chair before sliding down. He’s been walking for the past few hours now, and even with all those gym sessions—well, nothing can really beat a good, long walk. Foo Foo runs off almost immediately, the puppy wriggling around the furniture and sniffing loudly as he explores bit by bit of his surroundings.

“There should be fresh sheets and towels in the bedroom,” Piandao continues, flitting around the room like a nervous butterfly, adjusting the pillows on the sofa just so and scooting a chair under the dining table. “We have a washer in our house and you’re welcome to use it. There’s a clothesline out back for drying.”

Piandao steps back and folds his arms. “Anything else I can help with?”

“I should be good for now,” Sokka replies.

And then his stomach grumbles.

( _By Tui’s right fin, I swear—_ )

“I can fix something up for you, if you’d like?” Piandao chuckles slightly. “My granddaughter came over today, so I actually have quite a bit of food left.”

“That—that sounds great, actually.” Sokka blushes slightly. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s an honor to serve my guest.” Piandao walks back towards the door. “By the way, would the little one like anything to eat?”

“Foo Foo?” Sokka blinks wearily at the puppy. “If you have any dog food? Or chicken or something? All of my other stuff is in my car.”

“I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, you should rest up. I’m sure you had a long day.” Piandao bows slightly before heading out the door and into the night.

Sokka barely remembers anything that comes next, only that muscle memory propels him into the shower to wash the grime and sweat off of his body. There’s a tray on the dining table when he finally comes out of the bedroom, still drying his hair and pulling on a pair of boxers. A bowl of warm chazuke sits in the center of the tray, bits of baked salmon and chopped scallion swimming in a broth of tea and dashi. There’s another bowl on the tray, slightly smaller, with pieces of chicken mixed in with rice.

(Sokka can almost hear Piandao’s _for the little one_ hanging in the air.)

He whistles and Foo Foo’s at his feet in an instant, the puppy brimming with some newfound energy. Sokka places the second bowl on the ground before he picks up his chopsticks and digs in, the chazuke warming his belly and nourishing his tired muscles.

Somehow—and somehow, Sokka makes it onto the bed before sleep overtakes him.

△▽△▽△

Sokka wakes up to the sounds of songbirds and the sensation of sunlight beating on his face. For a moment, he almost forgets where he is—what bed is this?—until he remembers how he managed to find his Airbnb before passing out.

There’s something licking his face, and he bats it away with his hand—and then it comes back again in full force, something stinky and slobbery.

“ _Foo Foo_ ,” Sokka groans. “Foo Foo, what’re you doing?”

The licking stops.

“I thought I told you not to wake me up like this.”

The licking starts again.

“That—that was not an invitation, bud.” Sokka rubs his eyes and pushes himself off the bed, Foo Foo whining at the sudden loss of a nose to lick. His muscles are aching something fierce, his shoulders sore from slinging that duffel bag around for almost the entirety of yesterday. Sokka stumbles into the bedroom, turns on the tap, and prepares for the new day.

Fifteen minutes later, Sokka’s pulling on a pair of socks and tying up his shoes. There’s a few things he wants to check out today—the uncertainty of his car looms over his mind like a dreary cloud—and he’s interested in that lighthouse, actually.

“Whaddaya say, bud?” Sokka clips the collar around Foo Foo’s neck and attaches the leash. “You up for another walk today?”

Foo Foo eyes him warily.

“Or would you rather stay with Piandao?”

Foo Foo’s ears perk up.

“Oh my spirits, are you picking a stranger over me?” Sokka scoffs quietly as he heads out the front door. “C’mon. Let’s go take a look at what Midie Xiang has to offer, okay?”

Everything looks different in the sunlight, like someone’s gone and pulled off a curtain so Sokka can see everything clearly. The lawn is blanketed in lush green, the slightest bit of daisies and wildflowers springing from the edges of the yard in reds and purples, sprays of asters and poppies shivering in the cool morning air. Sokka follows the small, meandering path past the backyard—so _that’s_ the clothesline Piandao was talking about—and down to the front porch at the main house.

Piandao’s sitting in a rocking chair, squinting at a newspaper through a thick pair of glasses. There’s a teapot sitting next to him on a small table, and Sokka smells something flowery and sweet in the air.

“Good morning.” Piandao lowers his newspaper and looks over at Sokka. “I trust that you and the little one had a chance to sleep? How was it?”

“Really good, actually,” Sokka replies, because truthfully, he doesn’t remember anything between falling into the luxurious sheets and waking up to Foo Foo’s licks. “Passed out like a log, honestly.”

“That’s good to hear.” Piandao motions towards the teapot. “Would you like some tea?”

“I think I’m gonna pass, actually.” Sokka looks off into the distance. “I was actually thinking about going to the lighthouse today.”

“The lighthouse?” Piandao arches an eyebrow.

Sokka nods.

“Hiking to the lighthouse is good exercise.” Piandao folds his newspaper. “I used to do that with my granddaughter quite a bit.”

“Your granddaughter?” Sokka has vague memories of Piandao mentioning a granddaughter yesterday.

“Ah, yes.” Piandao says sagely. “My granddaughter is absolutely wonderful. She comes by often, and I’m sure you’ll get a chance to meet her soon.”

“Sounds good.” Sokka flashes a thumbs-up. “Well, I’m gonna head out soon.”

“One last thing. My husband told me to tell you that he was able to tow your car back to his shop. He says you should give him a call sometime today to check in.” Piandao pulls out a business card and hands it to Sokka.

“Thanks a lot.” Sokka slides the card into his pocket. “I guess I’ll see you later, then.”

“Of course.”

Sokka makes his way into town, finds a coffee shop, and leaves with a cup of blisteringly hot coffee in one hand and a bag of sandwiches and snacks in his backpack. The barista at the counter is nice enough to give him directions towards the lighthouse, scribbled on the back of the receipt crumpled in his pocket. The town looks larger, taller in the daytime, and Sokka can finally see the different flags and banners dancing around in the breeze. He passes by a shop selling wind chimes, the sound of metal clinking against each other dissonant in his ears.

The hike to the lighthouse is, indeed, good exercise. The trees grow shorter and shorter as Sokka makes his way up the hill, his shoes kicking pebbles off the well-worn trail and down into the raging water below. There’s a patch of red burning bright against the grass, and he stoops down and plucks a flower, rolling it in between his fingertips. Pollen gathers across Sokka’s fingertips in a smattering of brown and he sneezes, trying to find something to wipe the dust off his hands.

Sokka pulls out the receipt.

He could’ve asked the barista earlier about Midie Xiang, if there was a Zuko Huo living here and where to find him, but he had chosen to gulp down his words instead. And here he is, climbing towards an abandoned lighthouse when he should’ve been trying to track Zuko down—

 _I can’t_.

 _I can’t do this_.

( _Focus. Let’s get to the lighthouse first, okay?_ )

Soka manages to struggle forward, step by step, weaving his way around rocks and outcrops as he pulls himself past a corner—

—and there it is.

Up close, the lighthouse doesn’t actually look as big as Sokka had thought it would, a skinny tower winding upwards into a sky, the lamps burnt out at the top. The door at the base of the lighthouse looks rusted over, streaks of salt from the waves crusted over the handle and the hinges. Sokka runs a hand over the lighthouse and jumps slightly at a spark of static racing up his arm.

“We did it, bud,” he muses aloud. “We made it.”

Foo Foo barks in solidarity.

“You wanna rest for a bit? I got some snacks for you.” Sokka finds a place to sit down, his back leaning against a rock jutting out from the bluff. There’s the stunning view of the ocean from on top of this bluff, and he can see an endless swath of blue rolling, rolling, rolling until it crashes against the land in an explosion of salt and spray. There’s a hill of pine trees on the next ridge over, a dark green layer of bristle covering the land, protecting it, shielding it from harm.

Sokka rummages around in his backpack and pulls out some string cheese, laughing when he sees Foo Foo wriggling towards him, tail lolling in excitement.

“You know you can’t eat too much of this, right?” Sokka peels off a strand and holds it out. Foo Foo tugs on it sharply and gulps it down before nosing at Sokka’s hands once more.

“Hold on, hold on. I’m getting there.” Sokka finishes peeling the string cheese and dangles piece after piece in front of Foo Foo.

“You should be glad that I’m not scared of your puppy germs.” Sokka pulls out a sandwich from his backpack. It’s ham and cheese, and he takes a moment to tug out a slice of ham and toss it in Foo Foo’s direction, the puppy wolfing it down with gusto.

The taste of mayo and ham sends him back to a time in his childhood, when his mom would make ham and cheese sandwiches and take Sokka and Katara to the zoo to watch the bird shows. He remembers oohing and aahing at the raptors, how the eagles would fly overhead from stage to roost, wings outstretched, a shadow swooping over Sokka’s face.

“You need to be fierce like an eagle, Sokka,” his mom would say. “Strong and fierce, even when you’re scared.”

And sitting here, right next to the lighthouse and looking down at the tiny houses dotting the town—Sokka’s never felt more scared in his entire life.

Honestly, Sokka hasn’t talked about Zuko for a while now. Or even thought about him, for that matter. Zuko’s too close to that place inside Sokka’s heart, the deepest place within him that he doesn’t dare open up to see. Thinking about Zuko is painful, like thorns wrapping around Sokka’s lungs, prickling him until there’s nothing left but raw, throbbing hurt coursing through his body.

And as much as he hates to admit it, Sokka is a bit of a coward. He’d rather hide away his weaknesses inside himself, hold them close and tight, his heart a shield for his flaws. Sokka’s always done well in compartmentalizing these uncomfortable sensations, but there is a limit to how many things he can hold inside himself before something breaks

Sometimes, Sokka wishes that his high-school self never went to the library that day.

Foo Foo barks, and Sokka’s back on the ledge overlooking the sea.

“How’re you feeling, bud?” Sokka grins down at the puppy. “Not gonna lie, I’m still pretty tired.”

With that look—Sokka swears that Foo Foo’s agreeing with him. The puppy flounces around and falls headfirst into Sokka’s lap, squirming around until he finds the perfect position and stops moving, head burrowed right in Sokka’s stomach.

And sitting there, with a lapful of warm puppy and a bellyful of sandwiches, Sokka stares out at the sea and at the horizon, watching the clouds chase after one another, an endless game of tag in the sky. The wind rustles in his ears and the salt prickles his nose. Sokka closes his eyes and breathes in fresh, crisp air. His entire body relaxes, his shoulders slouching as the sounds of the sea take over his mind, his thoughts, his dreams.

△▽△▽△

“... Mister… Mister…”

There’s a quiet voice coming from somewhere off in the distance, whistling through Sokka’s ears like an echo.

“... Mister…”

The voice is still faint, but it sounds like it’s getting louder and louder—

“... Mister… Are you dead?”

This is how Sokka wakes up to a pair of hazel eyes staring down at him in concern.

(The fuck?)

And he’s 99% sure that this is _not_ Foo Foo, because Foo Foo definitely doesn’t have a face that looks like a human face, and Foo Foo definitely _can’t speak_ or call him “Mister” and—

Oh, no.

This is _definitely_ a tiny human.

( _Oh my fuck_.)

“Oh!” The tiny human gasps in surprise. “So you aren’t dead.”

As Sokka slowly comes to his senses, he realizes that there’s a small girl standing in front of him, her hands on her hips as she squints at his face. The girl has two pigtails swinging from her head and a row of colorful butterflies clipped in her hair.

But it’s her eyes—a swirl of golds and amber and sienna that light up when Sokka makes eye contact—that make him choke back a gasp, because they’re so heart-wrenchingly familiar, he’s only ever seen that kaleidoscope of colors in someone else’s eyes before.

“Hi.” The girl puffs up her chest and smiles—

 _It’s that wobbly smile_.

“Bye!” The girl waves at him before walking away.

Wait.

 _Wait_ , Sokka thinks to himself because _wait a second, this is a literal child who is wandering right next to a dangerous cliff, and I am not about to have a child die on my watch just yet, even if she brings back repressed memories for me because_ —

“Hold on!” He gets up on his feet unsteadily, and the girl turns around, curious.

Foo Foo tumbles out of Sokka’s lap.

The girl freezes.

Sokka doesn’t move.

“... Puppy?”

It takes a second for Sokka to realize that the girl’s the one who’s talking and not just some voice in his head.

“... Is that a puppy?”

Foo Foo barks.

The girl breaks into a smile. “He’s so fluffy!”

( _Maybe I should’ve named him Fluff Fluff Cuddlypoops instead_.)

The girl runs around and chases Foo Foo in circles, and for a brief moment, Sokka wonders how he ended up having to deal with two different children.

“Puppy!” The girl tumbles forward and wraps her little arms around Foo Foo. “I caught you!”

“You sure did.” Sokka wanders over and squats down until he can look the girl straight in her eyes, ignoring the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. “What’re you doing out here by yourself?”

“Bapi’s at work, so I have to stay with Grandpa Piano. But there was a pretty butterfly—it was big and had huge orange wings with dots on them and it was so close and I wanted to catch it with my hands like they showed us at school but you can’t touch butterfly wings or they die and—”

The girl claps a hand to her mouth in shock.

“Grandpa Piano,” she murmurs softly. “I didn’t go to Grandpa Piano.”

(Sokka’s mildly terrified by the prospect of being found with a random stranger’s child at a fucking _decommissioned lighthouse_ , of all things.)

“Grandpa Piano’s going to be mad.” The girl frowns and stomps her feet. “I need to go home, but I’m lost.”

( _Uh, oh_.)

Sokka can sense that he’s T-minus ten seconds away from witnessing a full-out tantrum.

“Okay, okay.” Sokka pats her back awkwardly and tries to brainstorm anything he can do. “Do you want to hug my puppy again?”

The girl nods silently, and Sokka shoves Foo Foo into her arms as he continues to think of anything else he can do to help get this girl back home. “Can you tell me where your Grandpa Piano is? Where can I find him?”

“He’s my grandpa.” The girl clutches Foo Foo even tighter. “He’s at home. He’s waiting for me.”

(A bizarre image of a paternal grand piano pops up in Sokka’s head and he banishes it almost instantaneously.)

“Okay, okay.” Sokka tries again. “Can you tell me where your, uh, your bapi is?”

And at the sound of _bapi_ , the girl perks up. “Bapi’s at work!”

“Where does your bapi work?”

“In the town!”

 _We’re getting somewhere_. “Can you take me to your bapi?”

“Yes!” The girl nods enthusiastically. “Yes!”

“So let’s go visit your bapi, okay?” Sokka stands up and brushes off his knees before reaching out his hand. “C’mon.”

“But Bapi always says _stranger danger_.” The girl looks suspiciously at him. “You’re a stranger.”

“Alright, your bapi’s definitely a smart one.” Sokka chuckles. “But I’ll take you back, okay?”

A tense silence falls for a moment before the girl sniffles and holds out her little finger. “Pinky swear?”

“I pinky swear,” Sokka says solemnly, hooking his little finger through hers and squeezing gently. “There. And if I do anything stupid, your bapi can beat me up.”

“That’s mean.” The girl frowns as Sokka pulls her to her feet. Foo Foo slumps on the ground and whines. “People shouldn’t beat people up.”

“Did your bapi also teach you that?”

“No.” The girl folds her arms. “My books did.”

“You must like to read a lot of books, then.” Sokka picks up his backpack. “Do you want to help me?”

“What?”

“Can you help me look after my puppy?” Sokka gestures towards Foo Foo. “His name is Foo Foo, and I think he likes you a lot.”

“Okay!” The girl giggles when Sokka hands her the leash and she grabs it with both hands. “I love puppies! And I love Foo Foo!”

“My name’s Sokka, by the way,” Sokka says as they start down the hill. “Can you tell me your name?”

“I’m Izumi!” The girl smiles up at him shyly. “But Bapi calls me Mi-chan.”

“That’s a great name.”

“Thank you, Uncle Sock!”

 _Uncle? Where did that come from?_ “Look, I’m Sokka. Just Sokka.”

“Uncle Sock,” Izumi says cheerfully.

“No, that’s literally the opposite of what I—”

“Uncleee Sockkk,” Izumi repeats in a sing-song voice, and Sokka can’t help but give up. He’s never been a big fan of the nickname, but there’s just something about Izumi and that innocent smile that makes it all worthwhile.

(And besides. He does have cool socks.)

The journey back down the hill towards the town is fast, Izumi walking just slightly ahead of Sokka, practically marching as she tugs on Foo Foo’s leash and puffs up with pride. Sokka watches in amazement as shel makes her way through the rocks, how she doesn’t slip up at the gravelly, slippery parts of the slope, chit-chatting about rocks and fish and birds all the while. He takes his time moving down, slowly, legs still aching from the high yesterday. The girl becomes quiet, especially once they make it onto the main street and head down towards the other end of town.

“—think Bapi is mad at me?”

“What?” Sokka looks down at Izumi.

“Do you think Bapi is mad at me?” Izumi asks worriedly. “That I didn’t go to Grandpa Piano?”

“I think your bapi wants you safe,” Sokka replies. “Don’t be scared. I’ll help you.”

“But I don’t want Bapi to be mad.”

“Your bapi won’t be mad.”

Izumi bites her lip and tightens her grip on Foo Foo’s leash. “But then Bapi will be sad.”

“Sad?”

“Sad.” The girl looks around them and suddenly stops. “I found it.”

“Found what?”

“Bapi.”

“Where’s your bapi?”

“Bapi works there!” Izumi points towards a shop, and Sokka looks up.

 _All The World’s A Page_ , a sign proclaims, jutting out of the side of the tiny, dainty-looking shop. The font is curly and slanted, sharp gold etched into the wooden sign that reminds Sokka of something—but he isn’t quite sure what it is. There’s a window box out front, a cascade of crimson nasturtiums dotted with violet petunias and extravagant poppies along with a hummingbird feeder swinging in the breeze. The shop looks warm and inviting, and there’s something familiar that tickles the back of Sokka’s mind for a moment—and then it’s gone.

Sokka looks around for a “No Pets Allowed” sign, but there doesn’t seem to be anything noticeable on the storefront, save for a sign in the window that says “OPEN FOR BUSINESS”. Well, at least there wasn’t anything that said he couldn’t bring Foo Foo into the shop, so Sokka does just that, opening the door to the sound of tinkling bells and the smell of well-worn books.

 _So this is where her bapi works_ , Sokka hums as he steps into the shop, eyes darting from side to side as he takes in the shelves upon shelves of books. There’s a rainbow of book spines decorating the walls, and the floor creaks just slightly when Sokka steps in, Izumi by his side. Foo Foo immediately pulls forward and the girl drops the leash, and Sokka barely has time to hold his puppy back. He’s not about to start trouble with whoever owns the shop, even if the shop looks deserted.

“Hello? Anyone here?” Sokka calls out.

“Bapi! I’m here!” Izumi rushes toward the counter. “Bapi!”

“Mi-chan? What’re you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at Grandpa Piano’s?” a voice replies, and Sokka’s startled because _oh my no, this voice, wait, what the fuck_. _It can’t be_ and then—

( _Dear La, have mercy on my soul_.)

—curious, hazel-hue meets bright, sea-blue.

**Author's Note:**

> hoo boy, what have i gotten myself into?  
> all comments/kudos are greatly appreciated : )


End file.
